


Bast

by TariTheNurse



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Decisions, Bast - Freeform, Crime Solving, F/M, Jungle, King T'Challa - Freeform, Maybe - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mystery, NSFW, Reader is Bast, Sex, Smut, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TariTheNurse/pseuds/TariTheNurse
Summary: The duty of a king is to protect and serve his people. Thankfully, that can be quite pleasurable at times ;)
Relationships: Black Pant, T'Challa (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), T'Challa/Reader
Kudos: 19





	Bast

It started with a single incident in the Riverlands where a goat was attacked and dragged from the pen in the dead of night. By the time the owner got out of the hut, the rest of the herd had trampled around in the panic, obscuring what traces there could have been.

Again and again, accidents befell the people of Wakanda, yet it took quite a while before the king, had received the first reports. Less than a month ago, the locals gave up on catching the beast or thief, and T’Challa immediately assigned the best hunters and warriors to track it down because it was happening every other night: someone would lose an animal. The dogs, wild or tamed, never reacted to the predator, forcing the people to stand guard.

Then, it was no longer just livestock being taken.

There seemed to be a pattern or rather a discrimination between the victims as the beast never took children, rather scouring the area to find where an adult was stationed to watch over the flocks. Furthermore, while the killings of goats happened every second night, it could easily last a week before a citizen was taken.

At least the humans would eventually reappear. Dazed and confused, with superficial wounds from claws and teeth from where the beast had grabbed them, dragging them along to somewhere they could barely recall – their sole focus amidst the terror having been the presence of a woman who would try to care for them when the predator was gone.

…

Two have been taken and returned. A third is still missing. However a pattern is emerging as T’Challa carefully pins the locations of each place the predator has appeared, and it is not long before he has decided to take action. He has a clear impression of where to start the hunt, calling those with that task back – out of concern for their safety. His own life? No, the king refuses to bring a member of the Dora Milaje with him. He leaves shortly before dusk. The black suit snug around his body and limbs allows him to blend into the darkness below the jungle canopy as soon as he leaves the plains behind.

T’Challa enjoys roaming the forest at night after the colourful birds and noisy monkeys have gone to rest. They rarely notice him passing by and tonight is no different although he does pause briefly to admire a pangolin which has decided to try its luck away from the open plains. Faint rustling of leaves catches the king’s attention before the shy creature senses the movement from deeper within the jungle. Uneven steps, relatively heavy and clumsy, send slight tremors through the ground well in advance for the Pangolin to flee before the intruder stumbles through the undergrowth.

“…h-help…” the (now former) abductee gasps with tears of relief running down her dirty cheeks.

T’Challa manages to catch the woman before she hits the ground – she has passed out from exhaustion though she seems to be otherwise unscathed. A flick of the wrist is all it takes to shake a collapsible Kimoyo Bracelet out and contact the Dora.

“Rest,” he mumbles to the listless woman after cutting the call short, “you’re safe now.”

…

Of course, it has to be Okoye who flies the rescue team out. And of course, she is more than displeased with the idea of leaving the Wakandan ruler behind.

_Thank Bast I’m still king,_ T’Challa muses – he knows it is the only thing keeping the faithful warrior from following him on every single mission. She will be grumpy, claiming she is not allowed to do her job. _I must protect my people first and foremost. _Okoye is not there to hear him, the Talon Fighter already soaring above the plains towards the hospital where survivor of the unknown will be treated.

The night sounds of the jungle return gradually as T’Challa follows the trail left behind by the woman. Sometimes, it leads him along hidden paths used by the animals, other times it crosses small streams and clearings, but it always follows an eastern direction which leads the king towards the higher terrain preceding the Lowland’s ridge – not true mountains, but grander than mere hills.

Rockier too, which makes tracking harder.

By the time the moon starts its descent, he has lost the trail twice as it weaves between and over craggy cliffs. There are shallow caves where the shadow rests, dark as the suit of the Black Panther. Vines cover the sheer stone walls like tapestry, dotted with tiny flowers of teal and white that emit a sweet scent.

He notices the silence when he slips out of the moonlight filtering down through branches high above. The jungle never truly sleeps. There are always creatures afoot, following their routines and adding to the sense of life with their sniffles. But now? Nothing. Not a leaf is disturbed. No ruffle of wings or pitter-patter of the nocturnal mammals along the trunks and branches. Not even the buzzing of insect. There is no need for heightened abilities to warn that something else is present, watching the man’s movements carefully.

A single thought completes the suit of the Black Panther, bringing up the helmet to both protect the wearer and add the ingenious interface Shuri has crafted (slightly inspired by Stark, but it’s better not to say that when she is around to hear it).

_Where are you?_ T’Challa strains all of his senses, slowly turning while settling into a defensive position. Every patch of shadow, each darkened crag in the stone, all possible hiding spots…both the king and the scanners come up empty until he has nearly completed a full 360 and looks towards the crown of the nearest tree.

What the digital system can not describe, the brain must cope with. _What…?_

The sight is not completely foreign, but he never expected to see this outside the dream-state the shaman can induce with a concoction made of the Heart-Shaped Herb.

Crouched on a branch as thick as his own body is a panther. The black fur shimmers with an otherworldly purple hue when the beast moves to begin a slow, calculated descended through the shadows beneath the leaves. Every movement purposeful, a deadly grace reminding the king of the flow of water. _Bast be with me._ He knows, as if the creature tells him, this is the explanation for the abductions of humans, and the killing of goats.

Glowing eyes pin him to the ground, freezing his muscles. Once it reaches the ground and stalks towards him into the moonlight which illuminates the feral body, it morphs and shifts to become a – T’Challa realizes with a blush – very naked woman. Skin dark as the panther’s pelt, eyes still aglow in a face with a distinct feral likeness even when it’s mere centimeters from his own.

Whether it is his own thought or an intruding voice inside his head, the king reduces the black suit of his mantle of protector until it’s nothing but a silvery necklace. The change is sudden, but the female does not seem scared at all. A smirk plays her lips, a low rumble rising from her chest and T’Challa’s heart flutters from understanding it is a purr. _Bast take me._

And she does.

Her claws stroke softly along his cheekbone before tangling with his hair until her strong hand finds rest at the nape of his neck, pulling to close the remainder of the distance. She allows him to run his tongue languidly across her lips, dipping in to feel the tips of the canines. Like a kid playing with fire. Like a pyromaniac creating the first spark to what he hopes will be a blaze strong enough to devour him. Already he’s burning within, the smoke clouding his mind.

T’Challa neither can (nor will) object as Bast lays him on the forest floor, the dried leaves crackling beneath his back in unison to the shivers travelling through his body when sharp claws shred the last clothing. No restraints, no cover to shield him.

Crawling up his nakedness, the predatorial power oozing from every pore of her being seeps into him. Without it, he’d be too weak. Through a haze of purple-tinted lust, he watches the goddess play with herself, slick dripping onto him each time the hips roll as she works slowly but steadily to present the wet folds over his face. Like a drunkard, he laps up the gift bestowed between Bast’s strong thighs.

Waist. Hips. Ass. Desperate for purchase, T’Challa’s hands grip hard to grind her onto his jaw. The tight curls spreading from her mound accepts his nose, guiding him by scent alone until her clit rubs against his nose tip. She arches above him, legs clamping around his shoulders and neck. Claws skim and tease closer to his groin where the cock jerks in anticipation, and when strong fingers close around the shaft, he gasps. Thrusting into her grasp, T’Challa makes sure to repay anything Bast does.

Eventually, it becomes clear that he is not made of the same stuff. _Air._ Lungs burn, but the goddess must have heard the unspoken prayer. Shimmying away, but maintaining a position above him, she pauses long enough for them to stare at each other with chests rising.

How she moves…it’s fluid and effortless even now as her core welcomes the straining cock of the king. When she starts riding, in a lazy pace that drags out the sensations, her skin shimmering with sweat in the moonlight, so she appears to be made of the night – the shadows and stars coalesced into a being of deadly strength.

T’Challa would be content merely gazing at Bast for the rest of eternity. However, as the spring of lust is wound ever tighter, it becomes nearly impossible to focus on anything but the tight drag of her core. Every muscle in his body is tensed. His spine arches, his head tilts back while he teeters on the edge and fights his own desire in order to delay the inevitable.

Sharp claws prickle, dragging shallow lines across his chest. The pace of the ancient spirit becomes erratic and as her walls spasm and squeeze, T’Challa looses control, thrusting upwards and eliciting a roar from Bast that mingles with his own.

…

The king comes to his senses as the first birds begin to sing in greeting of the sun. Alone. The scent of Bast still clings to his skin, her wetness now dried on his lax cock. Naked and sated, he stretches where he lies, knowing full well that he must return to his duties without securing proof of the safety of his subjects.

…

Days pass. Then weeks. Months. Although a few goats are lost (replaced or payed for by T’Challa), the citizens are left unharmed. Little by little the worries are forgotten, and only the king keeps wishing for another encounter with Bast – as unlikely as it may be.


End file.
